


do not stand at my grave

by justbecauseyoubelievesomething



Series: Writer's Month 2020 Prompts [7]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Co-leaders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Season 1, talking about wells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25777960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbecauseyoubelievesomething/pseuds/justbecauseyoubelievesomething
Summary: A Bellarke drabble for Writer's Month 2020. Prompt 7: hurt/comfort.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: Writer's Month 2020 Prompts [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863823
Kudos: 17
Collections: Writer's Month 2020





	do not stand at my grave

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the poem "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep" by Mary Elizabeth Frye.
> 
> I acknowledge this is more hurt than comfort, but hey... I'm an angst writer at heart. What else can I say?

Bellamy instinctively knows where to find her, nestled in the undergrowth just outside of the wall, hunched over with her knees pulled up to her chest. He hesitates along the wall, debating with himself. Who is he to shatter this moment for her? The night wind catches strands of her golden hair, plucking them away from her face like the whispers of a ghost. Otherwise, she remains as still as the tree stumps around her, unaware of his presence.

Then he remembers the raw scream from her throat as Charlotte threw herself over the cliff and he steps up to her side.

Clarke’s gaze darts to him as he sits, but she doesn’t speak. The tall grass rustles under Bellamy’s legs as he folds them underneath himself, letting the silence stretch. The noise of the camp behind them is more subdued than usual, news of Charlotte’s death and Murphy’s banishment casting a somber pall over the night. In the unusual stillness, Bellamy hears instead the sounds of the woods: the slight rustle of nocturnal wings among the treetops, the soft chirruping of crickets, the gentle rush of leaves stirring in the breeze.

He hasn’t had a chance to simply sit and listen to Earth yet. It’s deceptively peaceful and he finds himself relaxing under the thrall of the forest lullaby.

“Monty was looking for you,” he says quietly, so as not to break the spell. He likes the feeling of the two of them and the woods woven together like this.

Clarke takes a deep breath and he can hear the catch in her chest. She’s been crying, even though her cheeks are dry now.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disappear. I just wanted a minute to think.”

Bellamy doesn’t have to ask why she came here. The spot is ingrained in his head too; the image of Wells’ motionless body springing all too easily to mind. He didn’t even like the prince, but in their few days on the ground together he recognized someone worthy of respect, at the very least. To find him like that, glassy eyes staring endlessly into the sky, throat torn and bloodied… it will bother Bellamy for years to come.

He can’t imagine how Clarke felt then. He can’t imagine how she feels now.

He casts another sidelong glance at her, the way her shoulders are hunched under an invisible weight.

“Do you think he was afraid?”

He’s not expecting her voice, let alone her question and for a moment it throws him.

“What?”

Clarke hunches further in on herself, a bundle of arms and legs and yellow hair.

“Wells. Do you think he was afraid when he died?”

Bellamy fiddles with his bootstraps, trying to paint a mental picture of Charlotte approaching Wells, knife drawn.

“We don’t even know how it happened,” Clarke continues. It’s like she’s talking to herself, Bellamy’s presence already forgotten. “Did she sneak up on him? Did she talk to him first? Did he get a chance to fight back?”

“Clarke…”

She turns slightly, just enough so he can see her eyes, shining with unshed tears. “Is it terrible that I wish I still didn’t know? I wish… I wish we could have gone on… not knowing… never knowing…”

Pure instinct guides Bellamy’s hand to clasp Clarke’s elbow. “It’s not terrible.”

She blinks at him, searching his face for the truth behind his words and Bellamy swallows hard, squeezing her arm slightly. “It’s not terrible to grieve. They… he would want you to grieve.”

“You didn’t even know him.” Clarke rocks back and forth slightly and Bellamy wonders if she even knows she’s doing it. He hesitates again before moving his arm up and around her shoulders, pulling her close to him.

“No. But I know you,” he whispers. And he realizes as he says it that it’s not even a lie.

Somehow, against all odds, this princess has become important to him. The way they work together, talk together,  _ decide  _ together… He does know her and he’s quickly realizing that he’ll only know her more the longer they’re on the ground.

Clarke either realizes it too or is too tired to argue. She lets her head rest in the crook of his shoulder and they listen to the night sounds murmur and moan around them. Like Earth too is softly crying.


End file.
